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Summary List of stories Phase II Night: Ashes, Metal, And Corruption << chapter 62 Chapter 63 of 75 I, Professor chapter 64 >> << previous scene Scene 1 of 2 next scene >> Location Participants Time Summary Prologue | Phase I | Phase II | Epilogue 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14 | 15 16 | 17 | 18 | 19 | 20 | 21 | 22 | 23 | 24 | 25 | 26 | 27 | 28 | 29 | 30 31 | 32 | 33 | 34 | 35 | 36 | 37 | 38 | 39 | 40 | 41 | 42 | 43 | 44 | 45 46 | 47 | 48 | 49 | 50 | 51 | 52 | 53 | 54 | 55 | 56 | 57 | 58 | 59 | 60 61 | 62 | 63 | 64 | 65 | 66 | 67 | 68 | 69 | 70 | 71 | 72 | 73 | 74 | 75 Text Scrivener Blooms grumbled as Twilight fussed with the tie around his neck, rolling his eyes as Luna and Antares both peered over the couch at them, giggling like children while Twilight continued: "-postmodernism, and don't take nonsense from them, Scrivener, you're the one in charge. Now, today I've highlighted-" "If you wrote in my books again I'll kill you." Scrivener threatened, and Twilight gave him a flat look before the charcoal earth pony grumbled and swept the textbooks stuffed with notes and bookmarks from the side table into his messenger bag, muttering as he looked into this and poked at the binders and books: "I never really went to school, you know. Celestia must have pulled some major strings to get me this job. This stupid job." "No, she pulled major strings to let you keep the job after you made that kid cry." Twilight replied flatly, and then she poked him with a hoof, saying moodily: "You could really be nicer." Luna and Antares giggled again at this, and Scrivener glared at them for a moment, making them both duck back behind the enormous, plush couch: one of several large, cozy furnishings that decorated the massive den room they had that was complete with shelves stocked with books and knickknacks and the immense fireplace. They were living in a set of rooms meant for an ambassador – a very respected ambassador – to take lodgings in, inside Canterlot Castle itself. It had been eight weeks since they had come to Canterlot so Scrivener could start his teaching job, and six weeks since the doctors had begun running every possible test they could on his body, thanks in part to a generous donation from the Baroness. Celestia really was ready and willing to do anything it took to help Scrivener... and it both scared and enthralled him that she cared so much about his well-being. Scrivener was now on a whole list of pills and vitamins, most of which he took only because Twilight harassed him if he didn't. He had gone through every kind of scan known to pony-kind, and he thought they'd given him every type of blood test as well. Most of these came back abnormal, and a few of the doctors had already suggested exploratory surgery... although Scrivener was not exactly ready to let them gut him like a fish just so they could ogle his insides. He had enough scars as it was, after all. "You just told me to stick up for myself." Scrivener replied finally to Twilight, and he huffed after a moment, adding grumpily: "And Luna's my wife, you know." "Apparently not when somepony has to look after you. And yes, stand up for yourself, Scrivy, and you won't have to worry about being driven to the point where you snap and go way over the line." Twilight retorted, poking him a few times. "They're just kids!" "They're adults. At least, they tell me they're adults." Scrivener rolled his eyes, replying moodily: "They want to be treated like adults, I will treat them like rational, reasonable adults, even though I really shouldn't. They start acting like they want to be treated like kids, and... well, I'll treat them like kids. Little kids who I don't have to censor myself around." Twilight sighed and shook her head, then she leaned in and kissed his cheek before opening the door for him and waving him out, saying quietly: "Well, get out of here or you're going to be late again." "Wouldn't want that." Scrivener muttered, and he nodded before leaning in, nuzzling Twilight quickly before turning and heading out. Luna huffed at this, half-leaning over the couch, but Antares only smiled as the door closed. Then Luna grumbled and scrambled hurriedly over the furnishing as Twilight began to head towards the small kitchen, asking seriously: "Art thou trying to steal him away from me? To make him into a proper husband? Thou cannot, for he is already my wife!" "Luna." Twilight said flatly, and Luna cleared her throat and dropped her head awkwardly forwards, the violet mare shaking her head out moodily. Then Antares ran between them, and he hopped up to hug Twilight's leg, making her smile in spite of herself as she said softly: "You comin' here to scold me too?" "Nah. You help a lot with taking care of Dad, and I'm really glad to see that. You and Mom are both... really good for Dad, and really good for each other. We're all good for each other, that's all that matters." Antares gazed up quietly, nodding thoughtfully, and Luna and Twilight both smiled, gazing down at the colt softly. "Besides, Mom is no good at all that stuff." "I am so!" Luna said in an offended voice, and Antares giggled a little before Luna swung her horn at him in mock-frustration. "Beware, Antares! Soon thou shall be old enough for me to teach in the same ways I teach thy father!" Antares only giggled at this, and then he swung his horn back at Luna as his leathery wings flapped and Luna smiled slightly as she easily parried this with her own before nodding firmly. "Good! We shall have a good time today, Antares, and we shall visit thy father at lunch, how does this sound?" "Okay. I really like seeing Dad working... he seems... I dunno." Antares paused thoughtfully, then he giggled a little when Luna poked at him with her horn, flailing a bit before he smiled up at his mother warmly. "He seems grumpier outside, but happier inside. I think he likes teaching." Luna nodded firmly, then she grinned widely as she rose her head, concentrating... and Scrivener sighed, rolling his eyes on his walk into Canterlot city and towards the university, which wasn't far from the enormous castle. "Shut up, Luna." A few passing ponies looked at him oddly, but Scrivener only cleared his throat awkwardly and turned his eyes away, smiling despite himself as he turned to follow a cobblestone path that cut through a park and to the towering, ancient Canterlot University. There was a light dusting of frost along the path and grasses, but only a smattering over the trees: they had been in a bit of a warm spell for the winter months, and in Canterlot it didn't often get quite as visibly wintry as it did in Ponyville, thanks to the weather teams employed around the city, but Scrivener thought that only meant they were due for a cold snap that would cover everything in ice and snow. And admittedly he looked forwards to being able to take a few extra days off once he got the chance. He made his way across the road and towards the university doors, shoving through them and grimacing behind his glasses, reaching up to smooth out the rumpled dress jacket and shirt he had to wear as part of the dress code. His tie was still loose around his neck, since Twilight didn't know how to properly tie a tie as well as she thought she did, but he didn't exactly care: he was pretty sure the students paid as much attention to him as he did to them, after all. The earth pony took a moment to reorient himself with his surroundings, and then he nodded once before heading down the corridor, past administration and the professor's lounge, where he had quickly learned was the territory of the full-time professors and not barbaric, uncivilized part-timers like him. "Imagine if they knew I never even finished grade school." Scrivener muttered, then he wondered absently how he could work this into the lesson for today's class as he made his way to the classroom, past a group of ponies excitedly talking about anything but schoolwork. He shoved his way through the ajar door... and as always, found most of the class already in their seats, the earth pony feeling oddly cranky as he looked through the lecture hall before approaching the side table and tossing his messenger bag onto it. He ignored them pointedly as the students all stared at him, and then Scrivener dug his wallet out of the messenger bag before hurrying back out of the room. A few minutes later, he returned with a cup of coffee, putting this down on the table and glancing up to ensure that the class hadn't abandoned him. They were all still here, and he felt a fleeting moment of disappointment before clearing his throat as he dug out one of his textbooks, saying clearly: "Yesterday we began studying postmodernist writing... in particular, I asked you to take a look at the work of Martingale, did anyone at least start on the except of Filly outlined in your texts?" "That book is banned in more than fifty countries, and for good reason." whined a loud, snobbish voice, and Scrivener sighed inwardly as he looked up to see the exceptionally-pretty, exceptionally-annoying mare that had spoken. He thought her real name was Divine something but he preferred to think of her as Bitchy Britches. "It's amoral and evil." "Well, yes, it does follow the course of a pedophile on the search for the perfect little filly." Scrivener replied dryly, and then he glanced down at the text, opening his mouth- And before he could speak, a thoughtful, slow voice asked: "But how is it... postmodern? What is postmodernism?" Scrivener slowly closed his eyes, not bothering to look up at the stallion who had spoken and already feeling another headache coming on. Slowpoke was one of those extra-annoying philosophy students, but Scrivener thought he understood the male's real reason to try and sound all deep and serious: pretending he was deep and musing seemed to help score him a lot of mares. "Well, funny you should ask, since we did tackle the exact definition yesterday when we began the study..." "But what is it? How can it be?" asked Slowpoke seriously, the large, tan-color unicorn nodding seriously as his dreadlocks swayed around his face beneath his beret, and several mares sighed and stared at the handsome unicorn with something like awe as Britches only glared over her shoulder, as if offended by the fact that no pony was paying attention to her anymore. "Aren't we... modern? How can there be... post that?" "Very easy, we dig a hole in the ground and shove a block of wood into it." Scrivener said dryly, and there were a few scattered laughs before the charcoal stallion sighed and said seriously: "Back on the subject of Filly, we-" "That book has been the subject of burnings since its publication, I refused to study something that heroizes evil." Britches complained loudly, then she closed her book and nodded firmly. "Furthermore, it perpetuates the stereotype that all mares are weak and-" "Oh it does not." Scrivener snapped before he could stop himself, and when Britches stared at him, he decided the damage had already been done, so he continued in an irritable voice: "First of all, you didn't read it. As foals we're taught 'don't judge a book by its cover,' and yet we all seem to do that anyway, and you're doing it right now: read it, then you get the right to judge away all you want. Especially since this is a class based on critical analysis as a way to develop both our understanding and practical use of writing. "Yes, it's up to interpretation, and it can be confusing: the narrator is both a self-absorbed bastard but also a victim of both himself and circumstance: the filly he admires and spends his lifetime hunting and 'looking after,' in more than one way, is not illustrated as a shining star of virtue. But whoa, wait. Could. Could it be that because it's being narrated by a self-absorbed bastard we're actually seeing her through a distorted lens? That the writing isn't just... handing us all the information on a plate? Horses of Heaven, what madness is this?" Scrivener slammed a hoof against the podium, and his students were now staring: as a matter of fact, more than one looked excited now, likely expecting him to go into another rant or debacle. But instead, the earth pony forced himself to take a breath as he put the text aside, continuing in a more-rational voice: "I'm not here to spoon-feed you. My job, actually, is a pain in the flank: I have to make you all think, and more than that, I have to somehow make you all understand that the characters in a story have emotions, just like you and me. That even in a story, there's not always black and white, just a lot of gray area. That there are stories out there you're going to read, that are going to rip you apart from the inside out, that will not give you a moment of 'joy' or 'happiness...' but they will be the best damned things you'll ever read, and you'll come back to them again and again, because even if they make you hurt... they give you that strange, deep, dark pleasure, too that no pony can truly explain. And there are stories that you're going to read that will cut you, and hurt you, and scare you so bad you throw them in the corner and want to lash out at them and rip them apart and hunt down the author and shoot him in the face-" Scrivener shoved his own hoof against his temple. "But stop and wonder for a second if they're supposed to do that. Stop and wonder why they would do that. And see if you can read just one more page, push a little more towards the end. And hey, you might be surprised what happens when you do reach that final page... even if I know, I know, reading is such a pain in the flank and why would you bother when it's something so obviously morally outrageous and just like, bad?" Britches glared at him but didn't speak up, before a hoof shot into the air, and Scrivener sighed as he asked tiredly without checking: "Yes, Mort?" Mortimer Mortimer grinned awkwardly, the ghostly-white earth pony looking up with his oddly-bright blue eyes and asking hurriedly: "Is it true that Martingale was-" "No. This was not a veiled autobiography about a pedophile. Although yes, Martingale was accused – and very often, particularly after the publishing of Filly – of being one. However, as we should all know here..." Scrivener looked almost accusingly over the lecture hall. "Is that you can't compare writers to their literature. Yes, someone's writing can tell you a lot about a person. But you have to look at more than what they write about... you have to look at style, their word choice, how they structure their stories or poems... not just at the content. The content can only tell you so much... and there are plenty of writers out there who write about stuff they absolutely hate." There were mumbles throughout the hall at this, and then Mort rose his hoof again, waving it wildly, and Scrivener sighed tiredly: he wondered if all the time sniffing the embalming fluid at the funeral parlor was responsible for making him so... special. "Do you write about stuff you hate?" "Yes." Scrivener said simply, and then he said clearly: "Returning to the subject of Filly. The except you all had to read is one of the most controversial parts of the book, when the narrator describes how he attempted to drug his stepdaughter and-" "It's disgusting and amoral." Britches complained loudly, opening her textbook and looking down at it. "It's gross! How could anyone write about this?" "Yes, ponies never hurt each other, ever." Scrivener said dryly, and then he sighed a bit when Britches glared at him and a few other students mumbled between themselves. "We just went over this-" "But he's heroized! I mean, he fails at night and then it goes on this huge paragraph about how she ends up being the one to seduce him the next morning, that's wrong!" Britches complained loudly, and Scrivener sighed tiredly, dropping his head forwards. "That-" Scrivener held up a hoof for silence, and then he lowered it slowly and enunciated slowly and carefully: "For one thing, there is no such word as 'heroized' or 'heroizing' or any permutations of those, okay? Now. Do you know what tragicomedy is? What satire and irony are? Do you know what solipsism means? How about symbolism? If the answer to any of these questions is 'no' then you have some reading to do. This story can be seen as the corruption of innocence that eventually attempts to free itself from evil, or as a child already traumatized and poisoned first manipulating the corrupter, but then trying to escape its own evil, its own past. Either way, you can choose to keep going 'oh it's gross and wrong' or you can think of it as a story of hope. That maybe we can change. That maybe evil can do even just one act of good, even if that act comes through selfishness and pain. But my job isn't to critique or to opine on the story, it's your job to tell me your thoughts on the story, or at least on this fragment, and to do it without telling me how you would love to hold a book burning for this nasty piece of literature." Britches huffed and sat back in her seat, and there was quiet for a few moments before Scrivener started slowly: "Now. On the subject of Filly..." "There's a spelling error!" called a voice, and Scrivener sighed, tossed his textbook away, and instead grabbed his coffee, guzzling it and ignoring the dribbles of dark liquid that rolled down his chin and dripped over his dress jacket. It was going to be a long class. Category:Transcript Category:Story